


All That Remains

by erinmangerer



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War 2, Book 3: Voyager, F/M, NSFW, Smut with a side of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinmangerer/pseuds/erinmangerer
Summary: Jamie Fraser and Claire Beauchamp meet and marry in a world at war.  After years of losses, they seek healing in a small cottage in the Scottish Highlands.  Can they find their way back to each other?
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 39
Kudos: 180





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU- there is no time travel. There is no Fronk (you're welcome). The conversation between Jamie and Claire starting with Jamie asking "Why?" is directly quoted from Voyager.
> 
> Special thanks to @smasheroteacups for helping me get this lump of coal polished into a diamond and to @IAmNotTrisha and Artist Sassenach for thier contributions to the mood board you can check out over on Twitter (@erinmangerer)!

She would never forget the first time she saw him; the first thing she noticed was his hair. It was a windy day, the day they went off to war, and his uniform cap blew off his head. 

Red. But red was such a simplistic, inadequate way to describe his hair. It was fire. It was auburn and crimson and scarlet and brick and even some gold and rust mixed in. They would laugh, through the years, at the irony. His godfather Murtagh warned him before he left to stay low, that his “red hair and muckle size” would attract attention. He never imagined it would attract _that kind_ of attention. 

His cap tumbled and tossed across the platform into her hand at the same moment he reached down to grab it. Their eyes met, his ocean blue ones scorching into her whisky gold ones, and the whole world disappeared. There was no war, no looming training, no nursing or soldiering, only a man and a woman and the promise of what could be between them. Then he spoke, and his rich Scots burr sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine. 

“I beg yer pardon, Nurse . . .”

“Beauchamp.” She extended her hand. “Claire Beauchamp.” 

“Private James Fraser. But everyone calls me Jamie.” 

When his hand met hers, they drew breath as one. 

_It’s you_ , their souls spoke to one another. 

He managed a seat next to her on the train, and they spent the entire ride to their training location telling each other everything they could. They were both orphans. She had no surviving family, the beloved uncle who’d raised her now gone two years. He had his godfather Murtagh, older sister Jenny and her husband Ian, who’d lost his lower left leg in a farming accident as a teenager and was exempt from military service. He showed her pictures of them and his new nephew, his namesake. Their conversation flowed easily, naturally, as if they’d known each other lifetimes, not hours. Claire, who’d traveled all over the world growing up, felt the first sense of something always sought but never found. _Home._

They found each other whenever possible in the days that followed, stealing moments out of the chaos of training and preparation for what was to come. One night, in the dark behind the mess hall, he asked if he could kiss her and she mutely nodded her agreement. 

There was no turning back after that moment.

They were married two weeks later.

Claire knew that they were every cliché imaginable: the nurse and the soldier, the hasty pre-deployment wedding, the courtship that happened more after the ceremony than before. She couldn’t have cared less. On their wedding night, and on as many nights as they could manage afterward, they delighted in learning each other and nothing mattered but the intimate union of their bodies and souls. They had each been with others before. All those memories faded to insignificance like ink on pages of an ancient manuscript. 

As they’d known it would, the world interrupted. The remaining years of the war were a series of hasty visits and long letters, exhausting work and periods of inactivity filled with worry for the other. They’d each had trials they’d been forced to walk through alone. Jamie lost so many friends from home that she knew it was difficult for him to keep track of them all. And just as Claire had begun to suspect something other than stress as the cause of her missed monthlies, she looked down one day to find herself standing in her own blood instead of someone else’s. She bled massively and painfully, wondered if she was dying. Eventually, conversations with a few of the older nurses led her to suspect she’d miscarried. 

Having no memory of her own mother and no mother figure in her life, Claire had never felt any great maternal instinct — until that moment. Having a child was one thing. Having _Jamie’s_ child was suddenly everything she never knew she wanted. 

She wrapped herself inward around her pain until the next time she saw Jamie. He held her on his lap as she sobbed and poured out the whole story to him. He spoke over her softly in English and Gaelic and promised her they would have more chances. They both silently wondered how much more the war could take from them. 

Then, suddenly, it was over. Year after year of war and death and worry and blood and separation seemed to end in an instant. When they first reunited, with no more threat of parting, they were desperate for each other. But they both had wounds, and Jamie’s were deeper and more searing than Claire could have ever imagined. He started pulling away from her, unable to find the place of joy and freedom he’d always found in loving her. 

That was how they found themselves in a small cottage in the Scottish Highlands at the base of a hill topped with standing stones. They’d decided to detour there on their way to finally introduce Claire to Jamie’s family. They needed time — to reconnect, to talk, and hopefully, to heal. Time to see what remained of them.

Their nights followed a similar pattern, heart-wrenching and frustrating and lonely. They would attempt to come together as husband and wife, and Claire could tell the exact moment when Jamie’s mind was no longer there with her, but somewhere far away, wandering through his experiences in the war.

The Highlands were beautiful, but full of ghosts. And Jamie’s would not leave him in peace.

They would retreat to opposite sides of the bed, seeking rest, Claire assuring him that it was alright, that she understood. But then the dreams would come, and Jamie would startle awake in the middle of the night, sweating and shouting, living the deaths of his friends over and over. She would reach for his hand when she knew he was fully awake, and he would hold it, gripping it like a lifeline. Eventually he would retreat even further, spending the rest of the night on the sofa in the living room that was entirely too small for his large frame. At least Claire would be able to sleep, he thought. 

She did — barely.

Finally, one night, when Jamie was rising to leave their bed after another nightmare, Claire refused to release his hand. “Talk to me, Jamie. Please.”

He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, still holding her hand, and said nothing for a long time. She began to wonder if he would ever break the silence or if it would simply stretch between them forever. Then finally, quietly, he breathed, “Why? Why, Claire? Why am I alive, and they are not?”

“I don’t know. For your sister, and your family, maybe? For me?”

“They had families,” he said. “Wives, and sweethearts; children to mourn them. And yet they are gone. And I am still here.”

“I don’t know, Jamie,” she said, and moved behind him to press her front to his back, her arms wrapping around his waist as if to shield him. “You aren’t ever going to know.”

He leaned back into her for a moment, his breath unsteady. “Aye, I ken that well enough. But I canna help the asking, when I think of them.” He squeezed her hand and then stood to go. “Get some rest, Sassenach. I dinna wish to disturb ye further.”

As she usually did, Claire lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling for a long time after he left for the living room sofa once again. She began to wonder if she’d been going about things all wrong, and once the thought formed her mind refused to let it go, turning it over like a stone tumbling through a rushing stream. She wanted to give Jamie time and space, allow him to find his way back to her on his own terms. But instead, he seemed to be slipping further from her with each night that passed. From the very first, it was touch that allowed their souls to speak to each other, the connection far beyond the simple press of skin on skin.

Maybe the time for waiting had passed. Maybe she needed to forge the path for him.

She rose from the bed and opened the door of the bedroom, then paused. The moon outside the windows cast the entire room in an ethereal glow. They were like two heavenly bodies, their orbits separate, destined to move through time and space together but never touching, never meeting. 

_The hell we are_ , she thought.

He was naked, but had a blanket draped over his lower body. Claire knew he wasn’t asleep, but he still hadn’t sensed her presence, so she took another moment to simply drink in the sight of him — something she’d rarely had time for during the war years. She didn’t think there would ever be a time when his sculpted body did not call to her in some primal way. But it was the tenderness she felt when she saw such things as the sweep of curls at the nape of his neck that truly made her ache for him. Before they’d gone to war, when they were first wed, she used to see him smile in his sleep when her fingers brushed those curls. She wanted to find _that_ Jamie again — the one who was whole, the one who knew, even in dreams, that he was safe and loved and hers.

She went to him then, naked as he, and stood next to the sofa until he turned to face her. 

“Claire . . .” he started, but she climbed astride him and said, “Shhh. Don’t say a word.” She took his hand and placed it over her heart, just resting there, and the words of her soul poured out from her lips. 

“Come find me, Jamie. Come find me. Find us.” 

She pulled her hair back with her other hand and leaned forward to kiss him, and to her surprise, he rose up to meet her. Their lips touched, and it was gentle, tender — a question waiting for an answer. He continued to lean forward into her and replaced his hand over her heart with his lips, then moved his mouth to cover her nipple.

The question was answered, and he surged into her.

His lips were hungry, insistent, devouring as he worshipped her breasts. She hadn’t felt him _hungry_ for her in so long it was like striking a match and throwing it into a pile of dry brush. She rode him hard and placed her hands on either side of his face as they rocked into each other, making sure he was still with her, and he was, _thank Christ_ , he was. He seemed almost surprised by it himself, eyes widening and face lighting, and at last it was really her and really him and really _them_. 

He put one hand behind him, bracing himself on the sofa so he could thrust even harder, holding her to him with his other hand on the small of her back. Claire threw her head back and moaned, knowing she couldn’t last, overcome with the feeling of finally, _finally_ being one with her husband again. She dug her nails into his shoulders and shattered around him, the force of her climax ripping through him as well, and she felt him spilling inside her seconds later. 

They stayed locked together, almost frozen, until Jamie got to his feet with Claire still in his arms and carried her back to the bed. Almost afraid to sleep, afraid of breaking the new connection they’d forged, they stayed awake deep into the night — stroking skin, raining gentle kisses wherever they could reach, their eyes barely leaving each other. Finally, they succumbed to sleep, and for the first time since their arrival in Scotland, the ghosts were held at bay and no nightmares interrupted their slumber.

* * *

The next morning, Claire awoke before Jamie and spent a few precious moments gazing at him as he slept. Then she rose quietly and went to her bag in the corner of the room, seeking her secret weapon. It was a foolish thing, completely frivolous during the lean years of the war. But Claire had known as soon as she saw it that she simply had to have it. Not necessarily for the item itself, though the pink satin and creamy lace dressing gown was beautiful and feminine as it slid over her curves. Rather, it was a promise she made to herself — a promise that she and Jamie would come out the other side of the bloody war, that they would still want each other, and that they would finally get to have a _life_ together. 

She’d kept it a secret, hidden it away until now. Claire had spent enough time around battlefields to understand the importance of holding and reinforcing strategic gains; she was not about to give up the hard-fought ground they’d won the night before. So she slid the satin over her head and left her slumbering husband to see about tea and breakfast.

The sunlight dappled through the lace curtains and the breeze set them dancing. Claire had thrown the windows open in the small kitchen in the cottage and was enjoying the sounds of the birds outside as she stood at the stove. She heard a noise from behind her and turned to offer a sunny greeting to her husband, but the words died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. 

She could tell, even from across the room, that his eyes had darkened to the point where she felt she was falling into the ocean at midnight. They pinned her in place as his gaze raked up and down her form, her breath starting to come shallow and gasping. Jamie was not the only man who had ever looked on her with desire, but he was the only one who had ever aroused her with his eyes alone. He was fixated on watching the erratic rise and fall of her chest through the deep V edged by lace, the edges fluttering open while leaving her breasts tantalizingly hidden from view. When his eyes finally returned to hers, she knew her glass face concealed nothing; that he saw the raw desire written there. With a sound she could only describe as a moaning growl, he crossed the kitchen in two strides and their bodies fused together like magnets, mouths and tongues continuing to stoke the fire their gazes had started. 

Jamie hoisted Claire up in his arms and spun her against the wall, his mouth leaving hers to trail down her neck into the valley between her breasts. Before Claire even managed to take a full breath, he was on his knees, sliding the satin up her legs and growling again when he found her bare underneath. She couldn’t find her breath at all as he lifted her leg over his shoulder and dove in, his mouth hungry and demanding on her most intimate flesh, the pulse between her legs already building and roaring through her. She gripped his hair and held on, felt herself on the brink of shattering into thousands of pieces. This wasn’t tender, gentle lovemaking; this was raw, animalistic fucking, and she reveled in it. Soon, the ceaseless motion of his lips and tongue overtook her and she screamed and sobbed his name as body and mind spun into the chaos of release. 

And still, he did not stop; Jamie lapped up her release and then plunged his fingers into her to drive her back to the edge again. He was relentless, and she didn’t think she could survive it — tried to tell him but couldn’t form the words. Then it didn’t matter, because she was shaking apart as her vision went black and she exploded once more. She only vaguely registered Jamie rising to his feet, hitching her leg around his waist and entering her in one powerful thrust, pinning her against the wall. 

“Jamie, please,” she said in a voice she barely recognized as her own. “It’s so much. I don’t know if I can take it.”

“Aye, ye can. I’ve got ye,” he said, gripping her, spreading her apart, driving into her over and over. Then his mouth met hers and it was as if he was pouring all of himself into his kiss, his very life melded with hers as their bodies were joined as one. And suddenly she was as ravenous as he — reaching around to grab hold of his arse as she snapped her hips forward to meet his. Neither of them could hold out for long after that, the combined force of their wanting skyrocketing them into bliss and leaving them panting and trembling, leaning on each other for support when they were finally spent. 

After a time, Jamie managed to get them both into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, with Claire straddling his lap and unable to raise her forehead from where it rested on his shoulder. He was the first to regain his voice, and asked, still breathless, “Where . . . did ye get this?” 

He was softly stroking the satin on her back, and Claire couldn’t help but smile. She raised her head and asked, “Does that mean you liked my surprise?” 

“ _Liked it?”_ Jamie nearly shouted back. “Ye nearly killed me, Sassenach. But if that’s the way I leave this world, I will thank the Lord and gladly accept my fate.” He chuckled as he buried his head where her neck and shoulder met and she felt the vibration against her skin. “Aye, I liked it fine.” 

Claire laughed — a real laugh, a rarity in recent years. Then, with a smile that had formed almost unbidden to match hers, as if he could not help it, he gently tucked some of her rioting brown curls behind her ear. “Ye are so beautiful, my own. Sometimes I still canna quite believe ye’re mine.” 

Her heart ached with tenderness for him, her voice choked as she replied, “Well, hopefully you have at least fifty or sixty years to get used to the idea. Now, what do you say to a shave this morning? As much as this intrigues me,” she said, stroking the stubble on his face that had sprouted since their arrival at the cottage, “I think I would like to see the man I married.”

The darkness fell over his face then, and Claire wanted to curse herself. Unable to meet her eyes, he looked out the window and said quietly, “I dinna ken if that man exists anymore. I dinna ken if I will ever find him again, not even if ye shaved me as bare as the day I was born.” 

Claire was suddenly and surprisingly furious, the simmering volcano of emotion she’d pushed down erupting over them both. She pushed off his lap and stalked across the room, turning back to face him with tears leaking from her eyes that she swiped away as she demanded, “Do you think it’s different for me? Do you think I walked away unchanged? I’m certain I saw just as many men die as you did, James Fraser, maybe more. And even though I didn’t know them, every one of them was _mine_ for the time that they were under my care. Because I saw _you_ in every one of them. And on top of all of that, as if that weren’t enough, _I lost our child!_ ” 

She pushed a fist against her mouth to keep a sob from escaping as she turned away from him, hanging her head. She’d seen the way his eyes had widened at her outburst. They’d been doing so well, and now she was certain she’d ruined everything. She was supposed to be the strong one. She was supposed to be taking care of him, bringing him back to life, helping him find what remained of them. And she’d made it about _her_.

There was no sound in the kitchen for several long moments, save the birds from outside and her muffled sobs. Then she felt the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he turned her around and pulled her to him. 

“I’m so sorry . . .” she began.

“No, _mo nighean donn_ ,” he murmured. “Don’t ye see? We are the same, you and I. You need me just as I need you. I ken ye think ye need to put me back together. But ye’re broken too.” Her first instinct was defensive, but there was no note of accusation in his voice. So she took a deep breath, swallowed her quick retort, and found the truth of his words. He kissed her forehead and stroked his thumb gently over her cheek. His gaze was tender, reverent. “Och, ye are a brave wee thing, my own. But ye canna carry the load for both of us on yer back. I think I may have asked ye to do that for too long.” He looked down at the floor and Claire realized he was ashamed of the burden he’d left her alone to bear. She put her hand under his chin and tilted his face back up to meet her gaze. The weight of their shame would bury them alive someday if left unchecked- it nearly had already. No more. She could see the understanding in his eyes as he gave a brief nod and said, “Some of that load will always be there, aye? It will be lighter, though, if we carry it together.” 

Claire merely looked at him for what seemed like an eternity. Then she gave him a small, watery smile and said, “Maybe I should have lost my temper sooner.” 

He smirked and his laughter bubbled over. Then he placed a hand on each side of her face and gave her a tender kiss, gentle, like their first, full of promise and possibilities. “I dinna ken what the future holds, _mo chridhe_. But we will be there together, and we will figure it out as we go, aye?” 

She nodded firmly, ready to face whatever was ahead, buoyed by knowing they were both pulling in the same direction again. When everything was reduced to the most basic level, it was really quite simple. There was no future for her without him in it, so she would fight for it with her last breath. “We will. I know we will. So why don’t we start with that shave?”

* * *

Claire had helped groom her uncle for years as they’d traveled the world together, but shaving her husband didn’t feel remotely the same. There was something intimate about it, the way he placed himself in her hands, the dance of the blade over the planes of his face and neck. 

She hadn’t bothered to change, and was aware of Jamie’s gaze on her every time she stepped away. He wore a simple pair of black trousers and no shirt, and she took the opportunity to admire him when she went to wipe the blade clean. They were mostly silent, but she’d been turning an idea over in her mind for quite a while, and was building up her nerve to reveal it to him. It seemed after their breakthrough earlier that he was ready to have her lean on him again, but she still felt uncertain if they were ready for something like _this_. 

As she pulled the blade carefully up one side of his neck, she finally gathered her courage and blurted out, “I think I want to be a doctor.” 

Jamie’s eyes, which had fallen closed as she worked, slowly came open and met hers. One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk as he said, “I’m no’ sure what to make of ye waiting to say such a thing when ye have a blade to my throat. Were ye that scared, Sassenach?” 

She walked back to the window to wipe the blade again, keeping her back carefully to him until she was ready to respond. He wasn’t angry, so that was something. She turned back to him and said, “I know it isn’t a traditional path for a woman, but I think I could do it. I _know_ I could do it. There is nothing like the feeling of having a body under your hands and knowing exactly what needs to be done to fix them.” 

She could have carried on forever, but wanted to give him space to respond. “Ye’re a rare woman, Claire. I’ve seen it since the day I met ye. And ye have a gift for healing. I dinna want ye to be traditional. I want ye to be yerself. But . . .” he trailed off and Claire saw the worry on his face. Her stomach sank and she braced herself. “Does that mean ye’ve changed yer mind? About trying for another bairn?” 

The thought was so far from her mind she nearly laughed, but stopped herself. Even though they hadn’t discussed things in detail before they were married, Claire knew that being a father was serious business to Jamie Fraser. She left the straight razor on the towel and walked back over to where he sat, squatting down so she could be eye to eye with him. “No, Jamie. Not at all. I told you after . . . after I lost the baby. And I meant it. I have never wanted anything more in my life than I want to have a child with you. I know it will be difficult, doing both. And I wouldn’t need to begin medical school right away. But I believe I can do it — if you’re with me.” 

He reached out to cup her cheek, stroking his thumb softly along the side of her face. “Where else would I be? I have no life but you, Claire.”

Her breath caught and she gave him another watery smile, but she was determined not to cry anymore that day. She was also determined to finish her work, so she rose and went to collect the blade. But her husband’s eyes did not float closed again, and his hands did not remain still. 

“Jamie . . .” she said with a note of warning in her voice, not wanting her hand to slip, but never immune to the feel of his hands skating over her skin. His blue eyes sparkled as they met hers, the timbre of his voice tingling up her spine.

“Ye need to finish. Now,” he said, reaching to still her arm. She nodded and her tongue came out to wet her lips. His eyes did close then, on a groan. 

Claire brought the towel over from the windowsill so she could get through the final steps faster, then used it to wipe his face clean when she was done shaving. She turned back to him as soon as her hands were empty, but his own hands were already on the lace of her gown, pulling it back on one side and leaning forward in his chair to pull her nipple into his mouth. She threaded her hands into his hair and threw her head back, moaning her encouragement as he dragged her closer with his other hand on her waist. She couldn’t prevent a small whimper from escaping when his mouth left her, but then she realized that he was untying the satin bow at her waist so he could pull the dressing gown over her head. In one motion he rose from his chair and pushed it backwards so he could stand back and gaze on her. He strode to her and gripped the back of her legs to lift her up and around him as he brought his lips to hers, carrying her to the bedroom and laying her down. 

Claire felt the urgency in him and assumed that he would take her quickly, drive inside her and send them both mercilessly over the edge. But to her surprise, she felt him slow, content to observe, to cherish, to savor, and she responded in kind. The need for him remained, but it simmered instead of boiled. She felt solidly in the moment yet completely weightless. She released a small giggle when he kissed the bottom of her foot, then gave a bigger one when he smiled and kissed the other one. The dance of his fingers over her calf muscles and the long lean solidness of her thighs made her tremble. He traced the delicate but womanly flare of her hips and she felt intoxicated, writhing beneath him when he replaced fingers with lips, wordlessly pleading with him to give her attention where she needed it the most. She moaned impatiently when instead he kissed her lower abdomen, lingering where their child had once lived, but giggled again when he kissed her belly button. 

When was the last time he’d _played_ with her in bed? When was the last time they’d laughed as they loved? If her heart and soul hadn’t already belonged to him, they would have been lost to him forever in that moment. 

He seemed determined to drive her mad as he caressed the curves of her waist, stroked the softness of the skin on the underside of her breasts, then chased his fingers with his lips and tongue and teeth. She grew wild, thrashing beneath him, gripping the sheets, his hair, the headboard, anything to anchor her from floating off into an oblivion of sensation. No part of her was denied his attention- he nibbled on her collar bones, the long column of her neck, then she felt his hand tug her hair, the delicious sting shooting straight to her core, as he sampled her ear lobe and jaw. She was drunk on him, the world reduced to the feeling of skin sliding over skin, the mingling of breath, his hardness colliding with her softness. When his lips finally found hers after what seemed an eternity, she felt him slide home and somehow it calmed her, calling forth a sigh of blissful contentment. 

He rocked into her slowly and she rose up to meet him, more languid and less frantic than they’d been hours earlier. She was vaguely aware of the sunlight dappling over her skin through the lace curtains and she watched as it turned his hair into tiny bursts of flame. She finally had time to appreciate how his muscles flexed and rippled as he moved over her. The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure and she couldn’t imagine a finer symphony. At last there were no threats, no constraints, no deadlines, no intrusions. They were finally free to love each other the way they’d always hoped they could when the war finally released them to the rest of their lives. 

Rolling onto their sides, they faced each other, and their eyes locked as they continued to rock together. Claire had laughed at Jamie once when he’d referred to their marriage bed as a sacrament, but in that moment, she knew exactly what he’d meant, as if their very souls were reaffirming their vows as their bodies sang in agreement. Her release was not an explosion so much as a wave cresting and breaking against the shore, and she trembled and shuddered and clung to him as the wave caught him up and carried him away as well. As she drifted into sleep, Claire felt Jamie’s hand span her lower abdomen, nearly reaching from one hip bone to the other, his breath soft on her forehead as he whispered over her in Gaelic. _“Dia sgiath mo ghràidh, mo chalman geal,_ _agus an leanabh a dh ’fhaodadh i aon latha a ghiùlan_ _. . .”_

* * *

The day before they were scheduled to leave the cottage to travel to Lallybroch, Jamie’s childhood home, they walked up the hill hand in hand. As they stood in the shadows of the giant stones, Jamie told Claire the old legend of a woman who had traveled through the standing stones, falling through time, away from all she’d known, though she was eventually able to return. Even though the sun was bright in the sky and the day held only the barest whisper of a breeze, Claire felt chilled to the bone as Jamie wove the tale, moving closer to him and further away from the stones. He pulled her close to him and ran his hands up and down her arms to warm her, but paused at her shoulders when she looked up at him and asked, “Do you think we would have found each other? In another time?” 

He gave a gentle kiss to her forehead and said, “Aye, I know we would have. Yer soul and mine are two parts of a whole and were always meant to be joined. No amount of time or distance could part us, _mo chridhe_.” 

As she looked back on all they’d lived through, all they’d lost, and all that remained, she knew he was right. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they walked back to the cottage together, leaving Jamie’s ghosts behind to linger there with the faeries and the ancient ones. 

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, Jamie's Gaelic prayer over Claire is quoted from Outlander episode 211: "God shield my beloved, my white dove, and the child she may one day bear . . ."


End file.
